


A Boy Who Won't Be Good Might Just As Well Be Made Of Wood.

by Demishka



Category: Blade Runner (Movies), Blade Runner 2049
Genre: Existential Crisis, Family Feels, Fix-It, Gen, K deserves better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 04:34:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12425115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demishka/pseuds/Demishka
Summary: K has decided that his purpose has been fulfilled. He's ready to retire.Turns out Deckard doesn't care what K thinks.





	A Boy Who Won't Be Good Might Just As Well Be Made Of Wood.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I've posted anything! Hopefully this is passable.  
> There are already a few great fics out there ignoring the fact K is supposed to die at the end of the film. I'm glad I'm not alone in wanting to believe he gets to have some kind of happy ending.  
> Title is a quote from Pinocchio.

KD6-3.7 knows what is real.

He knows he’s not special. Or a real boy. He’s not _Joe_.

_“You look like a good Joe.”_

He thinks maybe Joi had wanted him to be real so she could be as well. She was like him he supposed. Questioning reality. Wanting to believe they were more than the binary code and implanted memories they were programmed with.

In a way he finds himself relieved. If he can think of himself as the glorified toaster that Joshi had labelled him it makes parts of his reality easier to deal with. The loneliness. The attitudes of the other Officers. Being treated as equipment. And there are moments he wants to forget, things that have been done to him in the dark corners of the police precinct. He can deal with all that, come to peace with it, because he’s just one of the office's utilities.

Joi used to help him cope with it all.

He can still fell the grit of dust and sand under his fingers as he reaches for her emulator. The realisation that he wasn’t going to be able to save her had come to him sluggishly. The look on her face as she’d tried to say goodbye.

As she had tried to say…

She’d still thought he was special. And, by association, herself he supposes. He’s glad that at least she got to hold on to that.

He knows he’s not special. He knows what's real.

It helps him with the fact that he is the distraction. The folly put out into the world to die for Ana. He hadn’t realised at first that it was _only_ him. The lone decoy. _Doesn’t that make him special in a way? Or just a chump?_ Fresya had said that they all had wanted to think they were the special one. He’d thought she’d meant that it was something all Replicant’s experienced. The vivid memories of that orphanage. The pain of a beating by fists and feet. The feel of soft, worn wood under their fingertips.

6.10.21.

Of course, if that was the truth the little wooden horse would have been found long before now. Fresya had meant in general Replicants wanted to be the miracle. To be something greater than they're told they are.

Not that K could understand because he was a Nexus 9. Bred to obey. Sapper had said he scrapes by in the shit of the world. Nexus 9 models weren’t allowed miracles. Perhaps he’s a little resentful of older models and their freedoms. He wonders if they understand what it’s like to not be able to say no to a command.

He supposes he was a bit traumatised at the time. Losing Joi, bleeding out and watching Deckard being hauled away, a man who he'd thought was... Then that fledgling hope was yanked out of his chest and replaced with a ragged bleeding hole. 

Good thing Replicants heal fast.

So, it wasn’t him. It was Ana, Deckard and Rachael’s daughter. Ana the special child. The real child. Born, not created.

Ana with a soul.

Not manufactured and churned out. Stamped with a serial number. Just getting by fine without a soul.

He holds no prejudice or resentment towards her. He’s in awe of her he supposes. Perhaps he’s programmed to be. All the best memories are hers. The ones that feel real. Of course, they do. Because they are. Real for her.

So yes. He knows what’s real.  

“And blood-black nothingness began to spin… A system of cells interlinked within cells interlinked within cells interlinked within one stem… And dreadfully distinct against the dark, a tall white fountain played.”

“Joe?”

Ana could be very quiet when she wanted. A good trait for a fugitive. He didn’t flinch when she spoke, said that name that’s not his. K knows it’s polite to acknowledge someone when they speak to you. He’s not sure when he’d bent over himself, arms over his head, on the edge of the mattress. He unfolds himself up into a sitting position and drops his arms to his sides.

“KD6-3.7.” K corrects as he looks up at her and smiles.

“That’s not your name.” Ana sounds reproachful in her breathy voice, a frown pulling at her features. K tilts his head and catches a glance of Deckard leaning against the doorframe. He still can’t figure out why they’d dragged him into hiding with them. Glued him back together. He honestly hasn’t had much time to ask. This is perhaps the longest time he’s been aware since he lay on those steps to retire.

“I don’t have a name Ana.” K reminds her gently. “I’m not-”

Deckard snorts from the doorway as Ana’s frown deepens further. That was the wrong response obviously. Her eyes are pinning him in place, where he’s awkwardly sat on the edge of the bed in the room. Perhaps he should start with asking them why he wasn’t left in the snow.

“Why am I here?” K glances between them and let his gaze settle on Deckard. “They’ll be hunting for me now. This isn’t what you wanted.”

“Dad.” Ana spins on Deckard sounding disappointed and the older man puts both hands up, expression overly innocent.

“Hey, don’t look at me.”

Perhaps if he heals up he can be more effective as a decoy. Lead Wallace and the LAPD further away from Deckard and Ana. Yes, that must be it.

But… The world thought Deckard was dead. Therefore, there was no way for Wallace to know about Ana. All the information that survives the blackout leads to him. If they’d left him on the steps in the snow they wouldn’t have to worry about running. He’s got to leave. Every second here puts them in danger. He can’t do that.

_“What am I to you?”_

K couldn’t say it to Deckard’s face when he asked. Couldn’t say aloud everything that had been bashing around inside him since he’d seen those numbers carved into that dead tree. How he’d believed for a precious few hours that he’d been wanted. Loved. That he was a real boy. Had a soul. That he’d looked at this gruff and hard man who’d nearly taken is head off when they’d first met and thought it might be nice to be part of a family. Because even when he was being bad-tempered K could see the father in Deckard underneath. The pain of loosing his wife and child in one fell swoop. Never being able to hold his daughter after she was born. Not being with Rachael as she passed. The choice he had to make every moment of every day to stay away to protect his daughter.

Even when he’d been ordered by Fresya to kill Deckard he had known that he wouldn’t be able to. Not because of his programming, but because he desperately wanted Ana to have a birthday with her father. To be able to blow out the candles on a real cake. For the both of them to have what he couldn’t. To be a family.

So he has to go.

K stands in one swift motion. The world tilts on it’s axis, his vision greys out and he falls back onto the bed in a graceless slump. He feels himself being rearranged into the bed with gentle hands. Soft murmurs of reassurance and someone stroking his forehead.

He must leave. He must get as far away as he can. Keep them safe.

It’s the last thought he has before being swallowed by nothingness.


End file.
